by Tamara Leigh
She felt the place where her hair had been cut away to stitch up her scalp. Though she might never again be as she was, she was alive thanks to the elusive Sir Michael D’Arci who had yet to appear though he had surely been apprised of her recovery.
Dreading his arrival that the curt chamber maid who attended her had told would be this day, Beatrix stood and once more crossed to the window. Shivering in the cool air that her removal of the oilcloth allowed within, she watched the lowering sun draw shadows across the castle walls. As always, her gaze was tempted to the wood and, leaning forward, she stared at the bordering trees and wished she could reach them. Of course, what then? She might once have been capable of finding her way back to Stern, but now…
She lowered her gaze to the inner bailey. It bustled with those whose work for their lord was done for the day. Now they could return home, break hunger, and bed down for the morrow when they would again rise to serve their lord.
As if the thought made the baron appear, his immense figure emerged from the stables. He was not alone. Beside him strode a man of obvious rank. Michael D’Arci? It had to be. And now he would ensure justice was done. His justice.
Beatrix considered the dark-haired man. As he and the baron neared the donjon steps, the latter said something. Though his words aspired to Beatrix’s window high above, they arrived in unintelligible pieces. But there was no mistaking her name that fell from his lips, nor that it caused the dark-haired man to stiffen and look around.
His revealed face made Beatrix’s breath stick. Even at a distance, she knew his countenance, for it was that of Sir Simon—albeit crowned by black hair rather than blond.
She clenched her hands at the realization that soon she would stand before one whose resemblance to that miscreant would surely cause her words to fail. Though he was not as big a man as Baron Lavonne, from the dark upon his face, he might as well be a giant.
He looked up, and though Beatrix knew she could not be seen among the shadows, she took a step back. The frown that crossed his face darkened it further. And as surely as she breathed, she knew he knew it was upon her chamber he looked.
She turned, retrieved her psalter from the bedside table, and pressed it to her chest. Such relief she had felt upon discovering it the day of her awakening. Telling herself God’s word would sustain her, she opened the psalter and settled down to await Sir Simon’s vengeful kin.
Hours passed, her supper was delivered, more hours passed, and still he did not come.
When her lids grew heavy, she slid beneath the bed covers. “Lord,” she whispered, “you allowed me to survive a f-fall I should not have, but surely not for this. Pray, re-reveal to me what you would have me to do.”
‘Tis said you are a devil, Michael.
Not in all things, but some—namely, women. But he had good reason. And now, more so.
Michael returned to his memory of the lonely youth who had followed him to the roof of their father’s donjon years earlier. He saw the night breeze lift Simon’s fair hair and sweep it across his troubled face.
Would that I could be like you, Michael.
Had he known what it was like to be Michael D’Arci, a man unwelcome at most nobles’ tables, he would not have wished it so.
Drawing breath past the bitterness, Michael opened his fists and began beating a rhythm on the window sill. He loathed waiting on anything or anyone, especially a murderess whose face ought to be set upon an angel.
No fair maid will ever want me.
And for that, Simon ought to have been grateful. Still, Michael had been pained by his brother’s plight, especially when he saw moonlight sparkling in the boy’s tears. Tears for fear he might never know a woman.
Michael looked to the postered bed where Beatrix Wulfrith’s still figure was played by the light of a dimming torch. Though her face was turned to the wall, denying him full view of her beauty, the slender curve of her neck was visible, as was the turn of an ear and the slope of a cheekbone swept by hair of palest gold. Deceptive beauty. No woman was to be underestimated, not even his stepmother who had been as a mother to him.
I would be a man and mother would have me remain a boy, Simon’s voice found him again.
The boy’s mother had loved him too well, refusing to see past her own heart to what was best for her son.
Trying to put away the memory of Simon’s bent head, slumped shoulders, and the sobs jerking the youth’s thin body, Michael returned his focus to the bed, something of a feat considering the amount of wine he had earlier consumed. Too much, as evidenced by his presence in the lady’s chamber when he had vowed he would wait until the morrow. But she had only been two doors down from the chamber he was given, and he had been unable to sleep. To resist the impulse to seek her out, he had donned his mantle and walked the outer walls for an hour, but when he returned to the donjon and drew near her door…
Would she awaken? It was as he wished, for he had waited too long to delve the guilty eyes of his brother’s murderer. If not for the delay in delivering him tidings of her recovery, she would have been brought before the sheriff by now, but it had taken a sennight for Christian Lavonne’s men to locate Michael in London where he had gone to assist with an outbreak of smallpox. However, Simon would have his justice as Christian had promised—and so, too, would the old baron, Aldous.
Recalling the two hours spent in the company of Christian’s father, tending the man’s aches and pains that should have ended his suffering long ago, Michael shook his head. For years he had urged Aldous to not dwell on Geoffrey’s death, to accept it and continue as best he could in his ravaged body, but it was as if the old man’s life hinged upon working revenge on the Wulfriths.
With Simon’s death, Michael now understood Aldous’s pain. Indeed, this day the old baron had wagged a horribly bent finger at his physician and goaded him for finally knowing such terrible loss. The bile in Michael’s belly had stirred so violently he had been grateful when Christian appeared. Christian who allowed his father his acts of revenge but had not refused to take a Wulfrith bride despite Aldous cursing him for acceding to King Henry’s plan. Christian who was now the baron but had once been a man of God. Christian who was in many ways still a man of God but hid the threads of his former life behind an austere front. And among those threads was the notion of forgiveness.
Remembering the supper and conversation he had shared with his lord, Michael tensed. Though Christian had promised justice, any mention of it this eve had caused the man to fall silent or speak elsewhere. Michael feared he wavered and suspected it was not only due to the tidings that King Henry still expected a union between the Wulfriths and Lavonnes but Christian’s training in the ways of the Church. Regardless, the baron would wed Gaenor Wulfrith as agreed. Of course, first she must be coaxed out of hiding.
Though it was believed she was at Wulfen Castle, the Wulfrith stronghold dedicated to training young men into worthy knights, it could not be confirmed due to the impregnability of the castle. But eventually the Wulfriths would have to yield her up, for King Henry would not long suffer their defiance. It was likely he did so now only because it was believed his edict had resulted in the death of Lady Beatrix. Though the Wulfriths were as much vassals to the king as any other baron, they were allies worthy of respect that King Henry afforded few. But if that respect precluded the dispensing of justice—
Nay, his brother would have justice!
You are the only one who has a care for me, Simon’s voice once more resounded through him.
Often it had seemed he was the only one who cared. Unfortunately, too much time had passed between his visits home for him to do more than play at training his half-brother into a man. It had boded ill for Simon whose mother found excuse after excuse to avoid sending him to a neighboring barony for his knighthood training. Thus, when she was forced to relent, Simon had struggled to keep pace with what was expected of one his age. However, after a long, arduous journey toward knighthood, he had attained it, unaware that h
is accomplishment would soon be stolen from him. By this woman.
Michael increased the thrum of his fingers. Reckless and willful his brother might have been, but he could not have warranted such a death. Might the lady seek absolution from her crime? Might she say the murder was the result of a bent mind, as it was not uncommon for those of the nobility to claim in order to escape punishment? Might she put forth that her head injury prevented her from properly defending herself at trial? The latter would likely serve her better, as there was proof she had suffered such a blow. Indeed, according to Baron Lavonne, her speech was affected, though he submitted it might be more pretense than impediment. What if she were absolved?
Michael seethed over the still figure beneath the covers. As his movement about the chamber and thrumming upon the sill had not moved her, mayhap he ought to shake her awake. But that would mean laying hands on her, and he did not trust himself. How was it she slept so soundly, without the slightest twitch or murmur? It was as if she feigned sleep.
That last thought settling amid the haze of too much drink, Michael stilled and considered it more closely. Indeed…
Beatrix stared at the wall and strained to catch the sound of movement. Though the man’s fingers had ceased their thrumming, and there was only the soft pop and hiss of embers that were all that remained of the brazier’s fire, she knew Sir Simon’s kin was there as he had been for the past quarter hour. Once more reminded that she was alone with the brother of a man who had tried to ravish her, and that he was likely no different, she suppressed a shudder. Why had he come in the middling of night? And what was she to do?
He strode so suddenly around the end of the bed that there was no time for her to close her eyes. Wearing a mantle as red as new-spilled blood, a tunic as black as a moonless night, he slowly smiled.
“Lady Beatrix awakens.” He angled his head, causing his dark hair to skim his shoulder. “Or mayhap she has been awake some time now.”
Waiting for him to leave, devising a way to deter him if he tried to do to her what his brother had done. But the only thing near enough with which to defend herself was the pewter goblet on the bedside table.
“I am Michael D’Arci of Castle Soaring. You know the name, my lady?”
Too well as well he knew.
“Have you no tongue?”
Aye, but the bridge between it and her mind was in poor disrepair. If a reply was forthcoming, it would surely come too late.
He pressed hands to the mattress, leaned forward, and narrowed his lids over pale gray eyes so like his brother’s and yet somehow different. “Mayhap you are simply frightened?”
As he wished her to be.
“Or perhaps you are as witless as I have been told.”
Anger built the bridge to her tongue. “I am not witless!”
“Ah, she speaks. What else does she do?” He bent so near she could almost taste the wine on his breath. Though he did not appear unsteady, she sensed he had imbibed heavily, a dangerous thing for an angry man to do—especially dangerous for her.
His eyebrows rose. “She assists her sister in escaping the king’s edict”—
Had Gaenor escaped? Though Beatrix had asked after her sister when Lavonne last visited her chamber, the man who was to have been Gaenor’s husband had not answered.
—“puts daggers to men as easily as to a trencher of meat, and survives a fall that should have seen her dead.”
A tremble, as much born of anger as fear, moved through Beatrix. Struggling to keep her breath even, she reminded herself of the goblet. If he tried to defile her, she would bring it down upon his head. If she could get it to hand. If she could harm another.
“You wish to know the reason I tended your injury?” Michael D’Arci continued. “Why I did not allow you to die as is your due?”
She did not need to be told. Her words might be slow to form, but she knew he sought revenge.
“Justice,” he said.
Revenge by a lesser name was still revenge, especially where unwarranted.
“Though you may be clever, I vow you will be judged and found wanting.”
In the past, she had been called clever. Would she ever be again—lacking D’Arci’s taint of sarcasm?
When she gave no reply, he said, “Could you, you would kill again, hmm?”
Again, her tongue loosened. “Most assuredly I would defend my person against any who seeks to violate me.” Was that her voice? Strong and even without break or searching? Whence did it come?
“You speak of ravishment?” D’Arci bit.
Though she longed to look away, she kept her gaze on his face, noting his full mouth, straight nose, broad cheekbones, and heavily lashed gray eyes—so like his brother’s she strained to hold back the panic that would have her scurry for cover.
Of a sudden, he cursed, his unholy use of the Lord’s name making her flinch. “Is that what you will tell the sheriff? That you murdered my brother because he ravished you?”
Beatrix blinked. Though ravishment had surely been Simon D’Arci’s intent, it seemed the Wulfrith dagger had stopped him. Determined to correct Michael D’Arci—to assure him she was fairly certain his brother had failed to commit the heinous act—she searched for words. However, his darkening face once more caused her tongue to tangle. Could the devil assume human form, he would surely be pleased to do so in the image of Michael D’Arci.
But for all of her fear, hope slipped in. Of that day at the ravine, he surely knew only what Baron Lavonne had shared. What if she told him the truth, even if most of the truth she could only surmise?
“I did not…” She swallowed. “I tell you true, I…”
“Did not murder him?”
“I could never murder. I but d-d-defen—”
“Defended yourself?”
How she detested his impatience! “’Twas surely hap—”
“Happenstance?”
That word she had not lacked. “Aye, happenstance.”
“You do not know for certain?”
“I do. I just cannot…remember it all.”
“What fool do you think me, Lady Beatrix?” he growled.
“I am not a m-murderer.”
“You expect me to believe the young man I knew well was a ravisher, and you whom I know not at all are no murderer? I should have let you bleed to death.”
Anger streaked Beatrix’s breast, and her next words sprang free as if she were quick of tongue. “Your brother would have!”
D’Arci drew a sharp breath, then splayed a hand across her throat. “You lie, witch, and I shall see you dead for it.”
Though certain he meant to strangle her, his fingers did not tighten. Still, fear denied her breath. Was he playing with her? First torment, then death?
She glanced at the goblet. Providing she did not alert him, she could reach it. Providing he had imbibed as much wine as his breath told, she could escape him.
He slid his hand further up her neck. “When you stand before the sheriff”—
She was not to die this night?
—“I will savor your fear.”
She swallowed hard against his palm and reached. “Nay, you will not,” she said and swept the goblet to hand.
As he jerked his chin around, she slammed the vessel against his temple. For a breathless moment, he was still, and then he collapsed atop her.
Staring at his head on her chest and the trickle of blood coursing his brow, she quaked in remembrance of his brother who had similarly fallen across her.
Had she killed Michael D’Arci?
Nay, he breathed, but that did not mean she had not damaged him terribly. She, better than most, knew what could result from a blow to the head. Recalling her return to consciousness in the ravine when she had seen crimson on her gloved fingers, she began to shake. That day, her young life had come as near to ending as one could come without actually dying.
She squeezed her eyes closed, but when she opened them, the crimson remained. This time it bled from Michael
D’Arci.
Knowing he might soon regain consciousness, she wriggled out from beneath him and dropped to her knees alongside the bed. Now how was she to escape?
Think. Think hard, Beatrice. She shook her head. Then pray hard, for you cannot do this without help.
Though she knew she risked much, she delayed her escape to call upon the Lord. And when she said, “Amen,” she knew what must be done. As her only covering was the chemise the chamber maid had delivered the day Beatrix awakened at Broehne Castle, and the baron had taken her bloodied gown and mantle for evidence, she would have to impose on Michael D’Arci.
She slid a hand under him and released the brooch that clasped the red mantle at his throat. Blessedly, the lining was black, which would allow her to merge with the night. She turned the inside of the garment out and dragged it over her shoulders. As she secured it with the brooch, she saw the dagger and purse on D’Arci’s belt. Beseeching God’s forgiveness, she appropriated both and retrieved her psalter. Not until she reached the door did she realize she lacked footwear, but there was nothing for it as D’Arci’s bulky boots would only hinder her.
She eased the door open and peered into the dim corridor. Unlike the first sennight since her awakening, there was no guard present. Obviously, Baron Lavonne had grown confident she would not—or could not—escape. Now if she could make it through the hall, into the bailey, and out the postern gate.
Though she had known the latter would prove difficult, if not impossible, since so much of a castle’s defenses depended on the gate being well disguised, she quickly located it and slipped through.
Not until she was outside the castle walls, driving one leg in front of the other beneath a cold sliver moon, was the hue raised. Entering the wood she had so longed for, she paused and pressed a hand to her throbbing head.
Which way? She peered through the darkness and, clutching her psalter in an attempt to pry free the icy fingers of fear, made her decision. The only way that mattered was away from Broehne, though not so far she could not watch for her family who would surely come for her.
